


Winter Schedule

by iniquiticity



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Greenhouses, Alternate Universe - Regency, Fluff, M/M, Non-Canon Additions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 18:03:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8411245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iniquiticity/pseuds/iniquiticity
Summary: Washington has routines, which Hamilton disrupts. 
(A Greenhouses-themed diversion.)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [malapertqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/malapertqueen/gifts).



> did you know mal is one of the most beautiful, thoughtful, considerate, well-spoken and marvelous friends a lady could ever make? 
> 
> enjoy some non-canon greenhouses fluff. (while you don't have to read my WIP [on the construction and tending of greenhouses](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6184234/chapters/14167825) for this to make sense, it's set there. if you decide not to, just know that our dears were arranged marriage'd, and lafayette is washington's head servant.)

Washington had heard about places where there was no such thing as winter. Hamilton occasionally called himself a tropical bird, when he was feeling at ease. He knew, of course, that his husband's relationship with his past and his childhood was complicated; he was not about to suggest he wished to have it. But the idea of a place without snow and the long, dreadful nights -- it was a wonderful one, at least in practice. And it was the sort of thing that Washington thought about, when he was awake early in the still-dark morning, the chill air in the room brushing across his face and making him settle more comfortably and more completely under his blankets. It was a slothful kind of thing, and he dreaded the urge that would insist he remove himself from the bed and respond to letters. Martha had sent him one about her son and suggesting a decent employ from him - Washington knew the man and thought he might do well in something with his hands. And he was in the middle of a significant discussion with Sullivan about human nature and gambling, of which he both despised and adored, all at once. But his letters were in his cold study, and he was in his warm bed, with his furnace of a husband snoring softly. 

Lafayette would soon appear, asking what he needed, preparing breakfast. There were always things to do. He thought he should check the greenhouse, just to make sure it had managed adequately against the snowfall. If there was a leak, or any other danger, it was always important to catch such a thing before it turned into a disaster. 

Hamilton groaned and wriggled in his arms, and then wiggled closer and, with what appeared to be a monumental effort, rolled over to face him. Then, with another grunt of complaint, Hamilton reached for their pile of blankets and pulled them completely over their heads, dropping them into suffocating darkness. 

"It should never be permitted to be so cold," Hamilton muttered into his sleepshirt, throwing a leg over Washington's thigh to pull himself even closer. He had no complaints. "Can you not legislate the weather? Perhaps a strictly-worded complaint to the department of bitter chills will settle their terrible attitudes." 

Washington snorted a laugh, and drew his fingers through Hamilton's dark hair. "They have not provided an address," he replied, good-naturedly, "Do you think if I merely leave it with the postwoman, she will make sure it is delivered appropriately?" 

"Likely." 

There was a knock. Washington allowed his head to breach the protective covers of the blankets and felt the freezing chill of the room. He grunted an acceptance and Lafayette appeared, studying them with a quirked eyebrow. Without speaking, he lit a fire in the bedroom fireplace, and then stood, his hands folded neatly behind his back. 

"Will you be needing additional time to yourselves this morning?" Lafayette asked, in the plain manner that only servants could manage, when they did not judge and knew exactly what their masters were up to, "If so, you should say in a hurry, so that no eggs are left cold while you are enjoying yourselves." 

Hamilton pulled the blanket down to expose his face, and Washington repressed the shiver where the chill struck at his exposed neck and cut through his nightshirt. 

"Lafayette," he said, "I am most disappointed that you seemed to have failed to stop the whole manor from freezing over." 

Lafayette rolled his eyes and grinned. "My apologies, Lord Hamilton. Just yesterday I spoke to the great spirits that control the weather, and they were quite insistent regarding the chill. In fact, one of them looked me square in the eye and said 'it is best if Lord Hamilton suffers terribly - what would you suggest?' and I said 'I cannot endorse such cruelty, for Lord Hamilton has the most innocent of souls and has never done a bad deed in his life, and requires protection from all but the smallest of dangers.'"

Washington chuckled at that, and Hamilton's gaze whipped from Lafayette up from him, deeply resentful. 

"My life is a conspiracy between the two of you to make me suffer." 

"Indeed it is," Lafayette said, "Now, would you prefer to extend your suffering in bed, or would you like to suffer at breakfast, where you are served eggs and sausage and more coffee than one person should reasonably consume?" 

"I will go ahead with the poisoning of me at breakfast," Hamilton grumbled, and then, cursing the cold the whole time, allowed himself to be dressed. "Well, I hope I shall not dine alone." 

"I will be there shortly, fear not," Washington said. Hamilton nodded, and then, folding his hands into his waistcoat pockets, disappeared from the room. 

Lafayette shot him a fond smile as he also, with a deliberate slowness, pulled himself from the covers. "I already checked the greenhouse this morning, sir," his servant said, selecting one of Washington's shirts and pulling it over him, "I was told it would snow, so I made a point to be early. At least then, it seemed to be warm and dry." 

"You did not have to do such a thing," he said, and his heart swelled, warm against the cold. First his husband, ridiculous and sour as he was, and now his friend. "It is bitter outside. I would have done so myself." 

"You will catch a cold, and then I will spend every hour herding you into bed. So I will." Lafayette's fingers flicked expertly upon the waistcoat buttons. Then, satisfied, he took a step back and studied his work. "Go to breakfast. Should I set a fire in your study grate, or do you suspect you shall be in the library?" 

"I do have to consider Jackie Custis. Although I have not spoken to Alexander regarding his plans for the day. I think he will want the library.” 

"The library it is then, sir," Lafayette said, and bowed, and turned. Washington followed him, and at the table Hamilton was drinking coffee and reading pamphlets and scribbling in the margins. 

"What is there to be said about me this morning?" Washington asked, and sat next to him, and was served. 

"It's this scoundrel Callender," Hamilton replied, and he forked his sausage with a viciousness that gave a good impression of how he felt about the pamphleteer, "In my entire life, I have met no one as dreadful. Well, Jefferson is dreadful in a different sort of way, quite frankly. And Madison, and Adams, and the whole lot of self-serving, blind idiots. But they are not like Callender, you see. They are just ambitious old men who would do best sunk at the bottom of the ocean." 

"Old men," Washington repeated, for it was known that he was older than all of them. 

"You are not an old man," Hamilton said, without batting an eye, "But. Enough. The fact is that Callender could be a reputable man. He has a skilled pen, and a nose for ideas, and a creative set to him, and the like. But instead of making something decent of himself, he insists on.....this." He jabbed his fork at the pamphlet, and Washington heard Lafayette's wince at the sound of the fork and table meeting. "Today he has called you a 'self-important recluse who uses his castle to disguise his flaws.' He says you have blinded people to your weakness." 

Washington considered this for a moment. "I have been called less truthful things," he said. 

Hamilton shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Irrelevant. If I ever came upon him on the road, I hardly know what I would do." 

"Wish him well, I hope." 

Hamilton narrowed his eyes, and he jabbed a piece of sausage at Washington. "You are worthless." 

Lafayette laughed, and cleared his plate, and picked up Washington's plate too, and disappeared into the kitchen. Hamilton glared at the back of his head, and shoved his eggs into his mouth as angrily as such an action could be taken. 

"Well," Washington said, "Do you think today will be a reading or writing day?" 

This seemed to distract him from his anger. "It is a reading day. I was hoping that I could have your opinion on some texts that I acquired." 

"Certainly. When the snow abates, I should check the greenhouse. Until then, I welcome your company." 

"The library, then." 

They stood, one after another. Hamilton settled next to the fire with an ancient-looking book that Washington thought he had likely acquired in some mysterious manner. It was in no language that he could read, but Hamilton studied the characters and read to him, his translation seemingly effortless. There was something idyllic about it, that made his thoughts drift from the complex philosophy text that Hamilton read from. He would have never imagined that he would be a man sitting in front of a warm fire and being read to by his husband. Hamilton did not even yell at him for not listening, but instead settled comfortably into his arms, and continued. Let Callender say whatever he liked about either of them. He would not have traded this moment for anything. He thought perhaps this was his future. He did not usually permit himself such dreams. 

"The snow has stopped," Hamilton said, interrupting Washington's daydream, which seemed much too much like real life, and also much too wonderful. "Do you think the greenhouse has managed?" 

"I suppose I should check," Washington said, although he was dreading the possibility that Hamilton would remove himself from where he had tangled them together, and furthermore that he would have to go outside, where it was not pleasant even if was not at present snowing. 

"You should. You will be very distraught if there is any damage." 

The terrible atrocity came to pass where Hamilton stood, and Washington's front became very cold. Hamilton carefully set his book to the side. 

"Lafayette!" he heard his husband shouting into the hallway, "Could you find mine and George's snow clothes? We should check the greenhouse!" 

Sighing, Washington stood, immediately regretting pulling himself away from the fire, and went to find his shouting husband. He restrained himself from sighing, for even without snowing it looked utterly abysmal outside. He was luckily very much distracted by the sight of Hamilton in his snow clothes: his husband was somewhat slight, and for lack of a better word looked utterly ridiculous while he was fully dressed. There was of course the waterproof coat, but under it another coat for warmth, and gloves, and a hat with furred ends with two extensions on the side to protect his ears, and a scarf, and a second scarf that he pulled close around his mouth and nose. 

He pulled on his own coat, and his gloves - which were furred around the wrist, and looking a little ridiculous, but quite warm, a gift from his husband - and his own hat, and boots. 

It was not at present snowing, but that did not at all seem to stop a bitter wind from freezing his exposed face as they set off. Hamilton walked next to him, squinting against the bright sunlight and very white snow. 

"You know that there is no snow, where I am from," Hamilton said, and Washington nodded in agreement, folding his gloved hands into his pockets to try and keep more warmth to himself, "Although you could boil alive in the summers instead. I think it is preferable, although perhaps only because it is what I am accustomed to. My first snow, you know, the rest of the class laughed at me because I was baffled." 

"Did they?" Washington asked. Hamilton's history was a topic that he found it impossible to know too much about; he would have consumed a ten-volume set on it, and been ready for more. But it was a delicate thing to ask his husband about - a topic that he only discussed in some mysterious, specific circumstances. 

"Indeed," Hamilton continued, "Of course, snow was discussed on the ship, but I confess to being too terrified to ask more details, and uncomprehending. I thought it was peculiar word for rain. And then my very bones froze to ice, that October." 

He cast an eye on his trudging husband. "You seem to be doing quite well, for ice bones," he said, dryly. Hamilton snorted, and then adjusted his scarves so that only his eyes peeked out from the clothes.

"I barely manage." 

Instead of dignifying the constant and horrifying suffering of his husband who was so bundled he was barely visible, Washington took his gloves off, sticking them in his pockets, and drew his fingers across the glass of the outside of his greenhouse. It was warm, a good sign. 

"I worry you might get frostbite if you take your gloves off for too long." 

Washington glanced over shoulder and let the smile creep up the side of his mouth. "I have suffered much greater than this, unlike yourself." He turned back to investigation, nodding to himself in the process. 

"I do suffer very greatly, at this present juncture," Hamilton said. 

"You did not have to remove yourself from the library." 

"I would be a terrible husband to allow you to freeze to death alone." 

At this, he could only manage a sigh, and then walked to the greenhouse door. He took careful note of the seals. 

"Well," he said, and reached into his pockets and pulled his gloves back on,"It seems to be holding quite nicely. If I can keep such a process up, I daresay nothing will die this season. We should plant thistles." 

"We shall not," Hamilton said, harder this time. Washington turned to retrace his steps back to the manor, and wondered if he could perhaps coax his husband back into his arms with his book, and as far as he was convinced they could settle there until the end of time. Although he would certainly have to finish his letter to Martha, about her son. She would understand, if he was a day late. Perhaps he would attach an apology: _It is my most sincere duty to inform that I did mean to complete this letter earlier, and I hope I may beg you to accept my apologies, for you see I was trapped by a man in my lap and his book in a language I did not understand, and the book was about the nature of perception, and I did not want to move from the explanation for I would lose the thread of the argument..._

Martha would laugh about it, he thought. He thought more about this tangent. She was always asking him to write more in his letters, after all. 

_Have you ever thought, about the nature of perception? That you do not see what you see? This sort of thing, I confess, has not occurred to me. Grass is grass, and the sun is the sun - but perhaps sun is a fiction of our imagination? Perhaps grass is not actually grass, but we only see it is grass, due to the construction of the human eye? And perhaps--_

Had he actually been writing the letter, there would then be a jagged splotch of ink and a terrible line and several words ruined, because something very cold and wet had splattered across the back of his head and neck, and had struck him in such a way that leeched into his neckcloth, freezing his flesh and dripping down his back. He reached, stunned, and his hand came back with a handful of melting snow. Then, astonished, he looked over his shoulder and saw his husband, both gloved hands in the snow, packing together another white circle. 

"Sir," he said, and he turned, "Did you just throw a ball of snow at me?" 

"Indeed that I did," Hamilton answered, "And in fact, I am about to throw another one at you." 

"Why?" 

"Because you have forced me to come outside, and so you should be punished." 

Washington's eyebrows went up into his hat. The melted snow water trickled down his back. He glanced around them at the snow, and then up into the sky, where the clouds seemed to have broken up. No more snowing for the rest of the evening. 

"I have not." 

"Well then," Hamilton said, and he had now accumulated a little pyramid of snowballs that reminded Washington vaguely of artillery, "Defend yourself." 

Thought of response was abruptly ended when he was instead required to dodge another packed ball of snow that whistled above him. Of course, such a thing was not completely alien to him, although even when he had been much, much younger it has seemed very childish. Admittedly, he had never been one much for games, especially games of this matter. But there was something enticing about Hamilton and his little ammunition stash (another of which he dodged, and a second which beat harmlessly against the waterproof material of his jacket) and the thought of pummeling his rascal with snow. 

"I shall, then," he answered, and then he bent down and scooped his own ball of snow, pressing it tight between his palms and hurling it. His body remembered strength, and despite the weather did what he wanted. 

His mind remembered military strategy. 

In this battle, his advantages did not at all play up. He could make slightly larger snowballs, yes, and throw them significantly harder, yes, but it did not matter, really. It was almost as bad to be hit with Hamilton's slightly smaller snowballs, slightly weaker thrown. But Hamilton was more defended than him with his greater layers, and also could move more agilely than him despite the layers. 

He needed to battle towards his advantages. He needed to be closer and abandon artillery altogether. Knox, in the back of his mind, tutted disapprovingly. Hamilton saw him lumbering closer and abandoned his ammunition, understanding his strategy instantly; they both knew that Hamilton could outrun him unless horses were involved. Perhaps with one final strike, like some fabled jungle cat, he could close the distance. He put his head down and apologized in advance to his legs, and then he charged. 

The odd thing was Hamilton let out a shocked wail before their bodies made contact, and only after Washington tackled him into the snowdrift did the wail stop. 

“Your damned spy!” Hamilton shouted, as snow-water dripped from his face and scarf and Washington dumped more onto him, half-laughing at his husband’s incoherent, nonsensical anger. “Your damned spy is excluded from this war! I will have him flogged! When you let me up, he is going to regret every moment he has ever spent on my estate!” 

“Language!” Washington replied, sharper than he has intended, and dumped one final heaping handful of snow on Hamilton before pulling away from where they were tangled. He was panting from the effort of chasing his husband back to the manor, and throwing snow at him, and as a result it was not so unpleasant to be soaked through. Almost refreshing, he thought, as he pulled his wet hat off and shook some of the snow off his shoulders. He looked up to see that they had run most of the way back to the manor, and in the open manor door was Lafayette, wearing his jacket and studying them both with a smug little smile set on his lips. 

“You should sleep outside as punishment,” Hamilton snapped at Lafayette, standing up and dripping from everywhere. 

“You know, of course, that I first and foremost serve His Excellency,” Lafayette said, “And to see him under attack is a circumstance I cannot permit to continue, when I am in power to change it. Do you think you could schedule my flogging after you are dressed in dry clothes? The main hall fireplace is quite warm, and there is hot cocoa, with brandy if you desire.” 

At least it seemed Hamilton was incapable of being too resentful of the possibility of a fire, dry clothes, and hot cocoa with brandy. 

“The flogging can be after the hot cocoa with brandy,” he said, after a moment, stepping inside the manor and trying to repress the shiver Washington caught. Lafayette closed the door behind both of them, helping them with their boots and wet overclothes, until they were both down to shirtsleeves and breeches. The manor fire was quite warm, and in front of it had been set two rugs, one on top of another, to warm and soften the stone floor in front of them. At first, he hesitated at the idea of sitting on the floor, but Hamilton did not at all pause, and neither did he flinch at taking the blanket Lafayette offered him. He was again snugly wrapped, and Washington looked at him for a fond moment before sitting, his joints complaining at the abuse they had just suffered. 

“I do not consider it a victory, I will have you know,” Hamilton said, and then he threw his blanket over Washington a little bit, though they could not both be completely enclosed in it. 

“No, I suppose we are only in a stalemate or ceasefire, rather than some sort of agreed treaty,” Washington said, but in fact he was having some difficulty maintaining this particular illusion, because the sight of his husband curled up in front of a fire in his blanket made his whole chest very hot and very tight. Oddly he thought again of Callender, and wondered what his life was like. Certainly, he did not have the most handsome or beautiful partner that covered themselves in blankets and pouted in the most charming manner that a person could pout. For a moment he pitied the man who spoke so ill of people he did not understand, and perhaps that he did so out of hatred or jealousy. Washington thought it would be very easy to be jealous of such a thing. 

He must have been staring, and Hamilton must have noticed, for in the firelight his husband’s cheeks went very pink, and he looked away. Washington, of course, was not a man to be dissuaded from what he wanted, and no matter how much Hamilton looked away, he did not stop Washington from holding him very close and kissing him at length, his warm tongue a contrast to the shock of his cold lips. 

“I surrender,” he said, into Hamilton’s mouth, and pulled back. Hamilton’s mouth was a little red now, lips slick, and his eyes half-lidded. 

“Surrender?” Hamilton repeated, because he was evidently slowed by being kissed. Then, comprehension. “You cannot surrender. You were winning. You are letting me win.” 

“I suppose that I am,” he said, feeling quite smug, for the only thing his husband liked less than losing was being allowed to win. 

“Well, I shall still take all your territory, and your servants too.” 

“What about me?” Lafayette said, appearing again with a plate with two mugs, which he set on the ground. 

“George has surrendered to me. All of his things are now mine, including you.” 

Lafayette snorted. “Of course. Is there anything else either would you would like, at present?” 

“That is all,” Washington said, and he picked up the steaming mug and let it warm his hands. Hamilton took a sip of his, hissed at the temperature, and then looked into the fire.

“Surely,” he said, “You have things to do other than drink brandy with me in front the fire.” 

“There are things, but I would much prefer to drink brandy in front of the fire with you rather than do them.” 

Hamilton looked away, because he was incapable of showing that he was pleased with something Washington had said about him. Hamilton’s hand slithered between them and found his own, fingers squeezing tightly. He put his mug down and reached with his other hand, gently turning his husband’s face towards him; Hamilton resisted meeting his gaze for a few moments, but then gave in. The smile that curled slowly at the corner of his lips was not loud or boisterous or bragging. Instead, it was tiny and vulnerable and breathtaking and almost too intimate. He smiled back. He was not a man who was fond of smiling. But he knew that Hamilton liked it when he smiled, and so he was trying to do so more. 

“What other things are you ignoring to attend to me?” Hamilton asked, arranging them closer. 

“Martha has a son she wants advice on regarding his career prospects,” he answered, and he took another sip of his hot cocoa and then put the mug down to draw his fingers through his husband’s hair when he spoke, “And I am in the middle of a debate with Sullivan about gambling.” 

Lafayette brought them a plate of meats and cheeses. 

“Sit,” Hamilton said, vaguely gesturing up at the servant, “It is much to cold to be doing work. Acquire yourself some hot cocoa with brandy and eat.” 

“If you insist, sir,” Lafayette replied, and disappeared, and then appeared again with two more blankets, his own mug, and a book he was reading. He put the first blanket over Hamilton, and the second over Washington’s shoulders, and took the third for himself. Then, evidently judging the scene once more, he sat, and opened to the bookmarked page. 

“Tell me about your debate with Sullivan,” Hamilton said, and laid himself on the ground, pulling his assigned blanket over himself and resting his head on Washington’s thigh. Washington had no complaints. 

“Well, we merely were wondering if the thrill of gambling is an inherent part of the vice,” Washington started, and went on a little regarding the nature of the bet, and so forth, until Hamilton had gone still and rhythmic against his thigh. He shook his head and watched him fondly, curled into a blanketed ball there. 

He met eyes with Lafayette, who looked up from his book long enough to grin warmly at him, and chuckle a little at the sleeping man on the floor. 

Washington thought, suddenly, that perhaps the winter was not so terrible after all.


End file.
